Cascade
by DixonHill67
Summary: Have you ever had one of those days? Let me tell you about Amanda's.


DISCLAIMER: 

DISCLAIMER: Scarecrow and Mrs. King and related characters are the property of Warner Bros. and Shoot the Moon Productions. This story is the property of the author. Please do not reproduce without consent.

TITLE: Cascade

AUTHOR: Dixonhill

RATING: PG13

SUMMARY: Amanda attempts to recover after a difficult day.

TIMELINE: Post-marriage, late fourth season. All secrets are still secret.

FEEDBACK: Yes, of course.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: I've been a tad depressed lately. It's nothing major, just little things. I decided that it might help to try and write my way out of it. I figured if I could get depressed over little things, then so could Amanda. 

Of course, these notes would be incomplete without a wink and a nod to my beta readers, without whom some portions of this story would not exist. So, thank you, all of you.

Cascade

Amanda carefully placed the last of her dinner dishes in the dishwasher and closed the door. She paused before starting the machine's cycle, and stared out her kitchen window, sighing deeply. Flexing her bandaged left hand gingerly, she turned the knob. The sound of rushing water, however contained, was at once oddly relaxing and curiously depressing.

Her life was like the water, she mused – filled with power and yet boxed in by outside forces and unable to flow free. Just as the water was jetted about inside so she felt shunted from agent candidate classes, to little league, to doctor's visits, to stakeouts, to teacher conferences, to laundry, to filing reports, to physical therapy, to composing new cover stories for Mother, to deflecting Francine's barbs, to helping with homework, to . . . where was Lee in all that anymore? It felt as though she had seen less of him since their wedding in February than ever before.

__

Today had been typical of her "wedded bliss." It had all started with Mother:

"Is Lee joining us for dinner tonight?" Dotty asked with all the subtlety of a predatory hawk. 

Amanda squirmed, a helpless mouse in her mother's talons. "I'm not sure, Mother," she replied. "Lee and I are working on separate projects right now, and I haven't seen much of him the last couple of days."

"He hasn't been over for dinner in almost a week. Is there anything wrong, dear? Did you two have a fight?" Given Dotty's intensity, Amanda felt certain that she, not Lee, would bear the blame for any imagined falling out.

"No, Mother." Amanda evaded her mother's gaze by opening the refrigerator door and retrieving a pitcher of orange juice. "We've both just been really busy, that's all."

"Oh, good," Dotty replied more brightly. "You know, darling, Lee Stetson is a good man. You could do a lot worse."

"Mo-ther . . ." Amanda drew out the word in exasperation. She had long since lost track of what frustrated her most: her mother's near-constant hints about commitment, the fact that she and Lee had to conceal that commitment from everyone but each other, or the fact that her mother was incapable of figuring out what was right in front of her eyes.

"I just want you to be happy, dear," Dotty retorted, evidently affronted by Amanda's pique.

"Believe it or not, Mother," she answered wearily, "so do I."

__

And then there had been Phillip:

"Mom!" the teen shouted as he joined his mother and grandmother in the kitchen. He was dressed in a pair of blue jeans and nothing else. "Jamie stole my blue shirt!"

"I did not! And it's an ugly shirt, anyway!" Jamie's voice echoed from upstairs.

"Phillip King," Amanda stated firmly, "I do not have enough patience to deal with your sense of fashion today. Now, you have fifteen minutes to get dressed and eat breakfast. We have to meet with your teacher in half an hour." When the boy remained standing in front of her, she ground out, "Move!"

As Phillip darted back upstairs, Amanda sank onto one of the barstools. "What am I going to do with him?"

"Send him to a monastery?" Dotty suggested wryly.

Amanda rolled her eyes and glared at her mother, hoping desperately that she was developing some talons of her own.

Dotty shrugged, smiling slightly. She reached out and picked up the dew-damp newspaper lying near Amanda's right hand. "He just needs a strong male influence around the house, dear." Dotty smiled softly as she spoke and cocked her head, and Amanda struggled to avoid her quiet, intense gaze. "I'm sure that would solve a lot of Phillip's problems." As Dotty took her coffee and paper into the den, Amanda's head sank onto the counter before her.

__

Getting out of the house hadn't improved the day:

"Mrs. Ludwig, I'm so sorry we're late. We had a flat tire on the way here, and my mechanic always cinches down those lug nuts way too tight. And with the rain and all, we . . ." She trailed off, but tried to hold her own under the teacher's scrutiny. Phillip's American History teacher looked about five decades past mandatory retirement age – a hunched and shrunken version of the woman in "American Gothic."

"Mrs. King," the teacher proceeded to lecture her in a thin, almost whining voice, "how do you expect your son to meet his commitments in a responsible manner when this is the kind of example you set?"

Phillip slouched in a nearby student desk. He leaned forward, turning his head away from his mother and teacher. As he lowered his cheek to the desk, the rainwater that had collected in his hood while they had changed the tire dripped down the desk's slanted surface. Amanda shook her own raincoat, scattering droplets around her.

"And where is your husband, Mrs. King?" the teacher continued, carefully wiping traces of water away from the stack of papers in front of her and eyeing Amanda with evident scorn. "I thought I was clear that you should both be here."

"My . . ." Amanda looked around for Lee, as though she expected him to materialize from the wall. "Oh, you mean Phillip's father. Joe's out of town on business. He won't be back until Friday, and the message you left made it seem like this was pretty important."

"Important? Important, Mrs. King? Your son is failing. He is floundering about in class, clearly unprepared and unconcerned. Yes, I think this is important." Mrs. Ludwig folded her hands primly on her desk. Amanda remained standing, and dripping, before her, uncertain as to just how she'd managed to find herself taking Phillip's reprimand instead of taking part in giving it.

"I agree this is important, Mrs. Ludwig," Amanda replied, breathing slowly. She was determined not to lose her temper with a woman who couldn't possibly understand the stresses under which Phillip had been living for the last months, let alone her own experiences. "It's just that our family has been through a lot lately, and Phillip's having to deal with that. His father is trying to be a more active parent, and then I was . . .I was in the hospital for a while."

"Excuses won't solve the problem, Mrs. King. Phillip needs discipline." 

Amanda winced as the teacher's reedy voice was punctuated by Phillip's soft snore.

"That sums it up rather well, doesn't it?" Mrs. Ludwig asked.

Amanda went to her son's side and ran her fingers through his hair. When the bell rang he bolted awake and shot to his feet.

"Shall we reschedule this meeting for the same time next week, Mrs. King?" Mrs. Ludwig's whine rose over the arriving students.

__

The Agency, so often an escape from the mundane world, was anything but:

"And then, after you've cross-checked your conclusions with our own database as well as the FBI and Interpol, submit your reports to me by five o'clock," Beaman told the agent candidate class dryly. 

That had been at shortly after ten o'clock. Four hours later, Amanda was still plugging away in the Q Bureau, ensuring the absolute accuracy of her report. She felt sorry for her classmates who didn't have the luxury of a private retreat.

But she felt more sorry for herself, chained to a desk while Lee was out making a difference. He was meeting with a contact who could blow their current case involving a suspicious arms dealer wide open, while she was reinventing the wheel for Ephraim Beaman.

"You'd think I'd know by now," she told the flowers before her. "You'd think he'd know by now. This," she emphasized, shaking a file folder at the flower vase, "is Lee's report on the first case he and I worked on together. I think my conclusions are pretty accurate; I **was** there."

As she shook the folder it tapped the vase repeatedly. The vase tipped to the side, spilling water over the surface of her desk. She jumped, gathering the stack of files she had pulled for reference into her arms. Noting that only a few of the files near the bottom of the stack had gotten wet, she moved to place some of them on Lee's desk. In the process, the vase rolled atop her keyboard, landing solidly on the "delete" key.

"Oh, shoot!" Amanda exclaimed. Pursing her lips in resigned frustration, she began to recreate her report from memory.

__

Her one break from the monotony had been to deal with Francine:

"Amanda, I thought you had him out of your system!" her fellow agent scolded.

"Francine, I . . ." Amanda wasn't certain if she wanted to defend herself, or Lee, or just break down and tell Francine the whole sordid truth.

"He will drop you like last year's hem lines, Amanda," Francine insisted. "You know that don't you? Why on earth would you take him back?"

"Francine," Amanda grated out in the most polite tone she could manage, "you may have time for a lunch break, but some of us have work to get done." She gestured to the files spread across both desks. "Do you mind?"

"Is this real work or homework?" Francine intoned.

"Yes," Amanda replied succinctly, pleased to have diverted her coworker's attention so easily. "And I have a deadline, so . . ."

"There's trouble in paradise again already, hmm?" Francine smiled with all the manufactured sincerity at a trained agent's disposal. "I told you before, he's the 'love 'em and leave 'em' type. He's no good for you, Amanda; can't you see that?" Francine's sincerity seemed slightly more genuine as her voice became wistful.

"Francine, please," Amanda pleaded with a hint of desperation, "I can handle it; I've been handling it. Will you please just let me get this done? I'd rather not still have this all over Lee's desk when he gets back this afternoon."

"Oh, didn't he call you?" She sounded both smug and pitying, Amanda thought. "Lee checked in with Billy and said his contact was halfway to Richmond. He didn't expect to make it back until late tonight, at least, maybe even tomorrow morning."

Amanda sighed deeply, not caring that Francine was witness to her obvious frustration. She was sure that Lee had left her a message somewhere; he knew her class schedule. Still, it felt demeaning that Francine knew his plans before she did.

__

And then Beaman had actually wanted to discuss her analysis:

"This is very thorough work, Mrs. King," he told her as he leafed through her report. "It's good to see that not all of Scarecrow's bad habits have rubbed off on you."

Amanda refused to rise to the obvious bait. She glanced at her watch, noting that if Beaman dragged this out too long she'd be late for the middle school's fund-raising committee meeting. She edged toward the classroom door, subtly making her point.

"I have a question about your allegations on page eleven," he mentioned off-handedly. "Do you have a minute?"

Amanda exhaled roughly, blowing her hair away from her forehead. She closed her eyes and braced herself to defend her conclusions to the Agency's incarnate example of "those who can't do, teach."

__

Which had caused her to break the cardinal _rule of volunteerism -- Never be late for a meeting or you'll regret it:_

She rushed through the school library door, shrugging out of her coat and laying it and her purse on an empty chair. As the other committee members turned to stare at her, she smiled a sheepish apology. When they seemed to expect more from her, she swallowed and offered, "I'm really sorry, everyone. I had a report to finish up at work and then it started raining again, and no one in this town seems to know how to drive in the rain. So," she caught herself in mid-ramble, a habit she'd spent a great deal of effort overcoming, "where are we on the agenda?"

To her amazement, the eight committee members began to applaud her. She glanced quizzically at her neighbor, Josephine Shankle.

"You see, everyone?" Josie beamed. "I told you that Amanda King would be perfect. She used to run ALL the fund-raisers when our boys were in elementary school. There's no one who can keep a project on track like our Amanda."

Amanda's smile wilted into a grimace. "What have you gotten me into, Josie?" she muttered from the corner of her mouth.

"Mrs. King," the vice-principal, Mrs. Leanders, began, "it seems that this committee feels that you are the best equipped to administer our fund-raisers for next year. With Mr. Hopper's youngest going to high school next year, he won't be with us. Please say you'll take the position," she entreated.

"Thank you, Ephraim Beaman," Amanda muttered to herself, glancing from one expectant face to the next. "I can help," she said more clearly, staring squarely at the vice-principal, "but I just can't run things. I wasn't working when the boys were younger." Her eyes traveled from the faces of her neighbors to the tray of cookies and paper cups filled with punch set out in appreciation of their volunteer time.

"Oh, but, Amanda, you have to," Josie gushed. "You're the only one with experience at handling these things." Amanda found new admiration for her neighbor's powers of persuasion. She determined to nominate Josie Shankle for the next committee chair that became available. "How will we get all those new computers without good fund-raisers? You just have to, Amanda."

"But, I . . ." Amanda sank into the nearest chair, wearily weighing the time involved against anything that might help Phillip succeed in school. "I guess I can . . . well, I can head up the committee." She shook her head as the others present heaved a collective sigh of obvious relief. "But I'm **not** going to do all the work by myself. I'll expect lots of volunteers."

"Oh, of course, Amanda," Josie insisted as a few others nodded, "we'll be right behind you all the way."

Amanda propped her head on her hand and raised her eyes to the ceiling, visions of manning a bake sale booth alone for hours on end running through her mind.

__

As if having to substitute dinner with stale cookies and fruit punch wasn't bad enough:

"I wish Lee had come over tonight," Phillip moaned from the family room. "This trying to connect current events to history is tough. He's pretty good at it."

"Phillip, stop complaining and finish that assignment," Amanda said before taking a bite of the beef stew her mother had saved for her dinner.

"So, Mom," Jamie approached her at her perch in the kitchen, "why hasn't Lee been coming over lately? Did you guys have a fight?" 

Amanda bristled at the boy's insinuation. "NO," she answered with unnecessary force. "We have not had a fight. We are grown-ups, Jamie, and grown-ups have to work. Lee and I haven't been able to work together as much lately."

"See?" Phillip shouted from the couch. "I told you they had a fight. It's too bad, Mom, 'cause four-eyes was just starting to get used to old Lee."

"Phillip, stay focused," she directed somewhat testily. "You've studied the Constitution before. How hard can it be to show how it still works for our country two hundred years after it was written?" Pausing for a cleansing breath, she set down the knife she had used to slather butter over a slice of bread. Before Jamie could open his mouth to respond to his sibling's taunt, she shot him a warning glance. "And don't call your brother 'four-eyes'," she added to Phillip.

"Mom?" Jamie's query was tentative. 

"Yes, sweetheart?" she spoke around her glass of milk. "What can I do for you?"

"Well, you said you'd help me with my egg drop project. I only have a few days before it's due, and I have some ideas, but I haven't been able to test any of them because Grandma wouldn't let me have the eggs without you knowing, and . . ."

"Jamie. Stop." Amanda shook her head in commiseration over his rambling. "I said I'd help you. What's a slimy kitchen floor in the name of science? Let me finish eating and we'll see how many eggs we can manage **not** to break."

"Great!" her son exclaimed. "I'll go get my stuff."

__

Two waterlogged trips to the convenience store for more eggs and newspaper later:

"Well, Jamie," Amanda sighed wearily, "I think we've done it."

"Yeah, this contraption hasn't let the egg break once. Those rubber bands were a great idea," Jamie smiled his appreciation. "But look at the floor. It looks like a chicken coop exploded in here."

"It's a chicken's nightmare," Dotty observed, joining them.

Amanda took in the egg-splattered newspapers spread over the floor, along with the remains of their many unsuccessful devices designed to keep a dropped egg from breaking. Egg yolk was splattered along the bottoms of the cabinets and appliances. One whole yolk sat precisely in the center of her stew bowl, which sat precisely in the center of the sink.

"Hello, Mother," Amanda greeted Dotty. "How was your date? You're home early."

"Never date a proctologist, dear," Dotty advised. "The dinner conversation is just not very appetizing."

"I'll keep that in mind, Mother," Amanda replied with a slightly sardonic grin. She turned to her son. "Pick up those papers carefully, Jamie. I'll handle the rest of the clean-up. You need to get to bed."

"Are you sure, Mom?" he asked. "I don't mind helping."

"Just don't make the floor any worse than it is and I'll be fine. You've already been out . . ." Amanda turned a concerned look out the back window. "I mean, you've been up way too late." The clouds that had been spitting occasional spurts of rain all day finally seemed to be gearing up for something major. She hoped Lee was holed up somewhere and not out in what was sure to be a hum-dinger of a spring storm.

"Phillip?" she called into the family room. "Are you finished?"

"Umm . . . yeah," he answered with a yawn. "Yeah, I'm finished."

"Good, then why don't you both head up to bed?" Amanda turned a weary eye to her mother, hoping her silent plea for solitude would be understood.

"Come on, Jamie," Dotty said as she patted the boy on the shoulder, "I'll help you with this mess, and then I'm headed to bed, too. I just hope I won't have any nightmares from dinner."

Amanda watched as they gathered up the egg-soaked newspapers, carrying them carefully to the trash can outside. She leaned against the wall next to the phone, willing it to ring with word from Lee. When nothing was forthcoming, she surveyed the remaining mess, gently massaging her temples to stave off a burgeoning headache.

"Grandma," Phillip asked as the three ascended the stairs, "what exactly is a proctologist?"

__

But the day wasn't over yet:

Scouring the cabinets and appliances had been fairly easy; most of the egg hadn't dried enough to harden and become unmanageable. Some of the bits of tape and glue that they had used in various incarnations of Jamie's Amazing Egg Protector were a bit more challenging. One Popsicle stick seemed to be permanently adhered to the refrigerator with Super Glue.

There was still paper spread over the counters, too, and as she scooped a load from the island to throw away, she failed to notice the Exact-o knife still lying on top. As she folded the papers, the knife cut through two layers of the Washington Times and several layers of her skin. The jagged cut stung as egg white and black newsprint combined with trickling blood. She dropped the papers to the floor and quickly applied pressure to her left palm.

Sinking to the floor, she clutched her hand tightly. It wasn't really a very bad or deep cut, she noticed as she eased up on the pressure slightly to inspect the wound, but it hurt. It really hurt! She could feel tears prickling at the corners of her eyes. It's as good an excuse as any, she thought, glancing at her throbbing hand; but looking around at her still suffering kitchen, she held back the tears.

She methodically rinsed her hand and swathed it liberally with Bactine from the first aid drawer. A not-quite-large-enough bandage later she proceeded to set the kitchen to rights once again.

Being a bit more cautious now, she straightened, scrubbed, scoured, and rinsed, finally loading the dishwasher and starting its cycle. Throughout her cleaning she paused periodically and stared at the phone, or occasionally the window, silently demanding a response. Neither inanimate object seemed to care for her concerns. The phone continued not to ring and the window continued to show only the storm-darkened night.

__

It seemed as though the day was a complete wash:

She leaned against the softly rumbling dishwasher and worried at the bandage on her left hand while she stole furtive glances at the phone. Under normal conditions, she could handle not hearing from Lee when he was on a case, but today's relatively normal events seemed to bother her more than usual. Everything had been a personal attack, from her mother's goading to Mrs. Ludwig's lecture to the thirteenth egg protector's springs flying loose from their fastenings and dumping yolk into her lap. And where was Lee? She had received no message from him, no phone call. His unwitting abandonment intensified the myriad minor stresses the day had delivered. She needed to hear from him, to know that he was all right; she was certain that she wouldn't be able to sleep without hearing from him.

Giving up on the phone for the time being, she wandered into the family room. She sat on the couch, idly gathering Phillip's things into a neat pile. As she eyed the essay written in his barely legible hand, she slumped back into the couch cushions and felt the tears threatening again. She clutched the notebook paper tightly, causing a strain in her left hand that caused her to wince and her tears to drop slowly onto the paper.

She didn't hear the scrabbling at the back door. She didn't hear the soft footsteps over the wet kitchen floor. 

"Hi there," Lee said as he sat beside her on the couch.

"Lee?" she gasped in surprise. "You're here? You're really here?" She threw her arms around his neck and held him tightly. He hugged her in return, running one hand from her neck to her waist and back up again. She huddled into the crook of his shoulder, reveling in the smell of aftershave and rain.

"I told Billy I'd be in Richmond until morning," he whispered softly, "so I'm all yours. What do you want to do?" He moved his hands to her shoulders and gently pushed her back to look at him.

"Amanda?" he asked as he took in her features, "What's wrong? Why are you crying?"

"It's this essay." She showed him Phillip's paper and dropped her gaze to the four short sentences her son had penned for his '750 word paper.' "Phillip's gonna fail History, and Francine thinks you're a cad, and the teacher yelled at me, but that's Joe's fault, and we went through three dozen eggs tonight, and my hand is killing me, and . . . and . . ." She looked up at him and wiped at her eyes clumsily with her left hand.

"What happened?" Lee asked, inspecting her hand with an alarmed look on his face. He touched the puckered skin that extended beyond the bandage and then peeled the gauze back gently. "This looks pretty bad. You haven't had it looked at, have you?"

"It just happened a little while ago," she told him, sniffling and scrunching up her face to keep more tears at bay. "I'll be okay."

"You sure will," Lee agreed, "as soon as we get this looked at, and bandaged by someone with two good hands." He stroked her palm around the cut and she began to relax for the first time all day. "It probably needs stitches," he opined.

"Oh, Lee, it does not," Amanda shook her head, but didn't remove her hand from his. "I just need some help bandaging it better, and you can do that." She snuggled into him, and he draped an arm around her shoulders. "Who are you to try and force me into going to the hospital, Mr. 'Doctors-are-evil'?" she said into his chest with a small smile. "I don't need a doctor; I just need you, and now you're here." 

Lee gave her an admonishing look that she tried to ignore. He released her hand and, turning slightly toward her, took her by the shoulders again. As he looked into her eyes, Amanda felt compelled to tell him all the sordid petty troubles of her day, but she was certain that was the last thing he needed after tailing a contact across Virginia for hours on end. She buried her desire to unburden herself deep down with the rest of the day's frustrations and ran her good hand through his hair. "Lee, I just need . . ."

"You **need** to tell me about your day," he interrupted. "All of it – Francine and the eggs and the teacher and Joe."

"You really don't want to hear all that," she insisted, shaking her head. She tried to settle back against him, but he held her in place, facing him.

"Amanda, why else am I here?" he asked plaintively. "This may be a secret life we're building together, but it's still a life, and I want to be as much a part of it as I can." He pled his case with his eyes as well as his words, deep hazel pools that she felt she would surely drown in if he didn't look away soon. "Come on," he whispered, stroking her cheek tenderly, "I spent all day wondering how the meeting with Phillip's teacher went and how your class at work went today. The least you could do is satisfy my curiosity."

Lightning flashed through the French doors and Amanda looked outside. She jumped slightly as a thunderclap rolled over the city, releasing a steady outpouring of rain. Turning back to her husband, she murmured, "Oh, Lee, it was just awful. It all started with Mother . . ."

__

As the rain petered out:

"So let me see if I've got this all straight," Lee said as he held her close after having listened to all the details of her day. "Your mother is still impressed with me, that's good; Phillip's blue shirt is still missing, that's good, too, because it was the ugliest shirt I've ever seen; the Wagoneer still has a spare on it, that's bad . . ."

Amanda drew a breath and stared at him with wide eyes, ready to retort over the spare tire or Phillip's shirt, she wasn't sure which. She opened her mouth to speak, but he put a finger to her lips. "Shh, I'm not finished yet.

"Phillip's teacher is a mean old hag who hasn't smiled since Eisenhower, that's bad, but the school year is almost over; Beaman didn't understand parts of your analysis, that's good because Beaman has no clue how things really are in the field, and you obviously do; Francine is on to us again, and I guess that's bad since now she probably thinks we're both as shallow as she is . . ." He smiled and paused, and Amanda thought he might actually be relishing the idea of Francine dragging his name through the mud.

"Lee, she isn't . . ." Amanda interrupted only to be cut off just as quickly.

"Let me finish, please," Lee instructed. "I listened; you could at least let me make sure I understand everything." He hugged her around the shoulders, pulling her close, and she smiled, beginning to enjoy his summary of her day.

"The other parents are taking advantage of you again, that's bad; thirty-six eggs lost their lives today, and that's good because it will make it harder for you or your mother to push breakfast on me for the next few days; Jamie's project works, that's very good; the kitchen was a disaster, but now it sparkles like always, so that's good; your hand is gravely injured and you won't seek medical attention, and that's very, very bad." He tapped her nose with one finger and then planted a light kiss on her bandaged palm.

"But, altogether, we've got six good things, three bad things, and two that are really rather questionable, so I think that with a little effort we can still turn this day around." He kissed her cheek, and then closed in to briefly capture her lips. "Did I miss anything?" he asked as he pulled away.

"Yes," Amanda replied, and he arched an eyebrow in surprise, "you're here and that's very, very good." She leaned in close again and kissed him fleetingly, but with an implication of more to come.

"So it is," he murmured back, tightening his arms around her.

"Lee, I . . ." Amanda struggled for words to express her feelings. "Thank you – for listening, and for putting things into perspective. I guess I just . . . I just get a little down when I can't talk to anyone about everything, and you're the only one I can to talk to about **everything**, and I needed to talk about everything, and you weren't anywhere around, and I guess it all just got . . . well, thank you, sweetheart."

"That's what I'm here for, Amanda," Lee whispered before kissing her deeply. "Besides," he continued as he broke the kiss, "tomorrow's another day."

Amanda shot him a wry glance as a tortured grinding noise emanated from the kitchen. The dishwasher was no longer whirring softly. 

"Well, that just takes the cake," Amanda groaned, letting her head fall against Lee's chest. "I thought I had that thing fixed."

"Amanda," Lee soothed, "let it go. We'll get someone to look at it."

"No," she began as she half-rose from the couch; "I just need to go jostle the blue wire again. Just like everything else, the dishwasher needs my attention. What a perfect end to this day." She harrumphed with frustration as the tension Lee had begun to ease crept back, tugging at the corners of her awareness.

"No," Lee returned with gentle firmness, "**you** need some attention." He pulled her into his lap. "The dishwasher can wait until morning." He stroked her hair as she sat at the edge of his lap, hesitating between responsibility and relief. "I'll come over," he whispered, tugging her closer and kissing his way along her jaw. "I'll watch you eat breakfast," he murmured into her ear. "I'll try to work the Constitution into every other sentence." He trailed his lips down her neck; her resistance gave way and she melted back against him. He tucked her close to him and urged, "And then we'll call someone to deal with the dishwasher."

Amanda drew back somewhat regretfully. "Oh, Lee," she protested weakly, glaring over his shoulder toward the day's last traitorous betrayal, "it's so simple. I'm sure it's just the blue wire."

"Why don't we worry about **your** blue wire right now, hmm?" He caught her wandering glance and held it.

Amanda marveled at the warmth and intensity radiating from Lee's gaze. In his eyes she saw love, passion, and acceptance. There were no demands, no pressures, just a silent plea that she accept what he had to give her. She leaned back, drawing him to lie alongside her, never looking away.

"Tomorrow sounds good," she whispered, smoothing his hair back from his forehead.

"Very, very good," he agreed, jostling her so they fit together perfectly.

Amanda closed her eyes as Lee nuzzled against her. All of the day's frustrations drained away. She surrendered gladly to his attentions, awash now in the comfort and security he provided. 

THE END


End file.
